Right in front of the entrance panel was a pile of drink cans and food wrappers. Greg nearly put his foot in an adult-sized potty that had been connected in to Angelica's plumbing by a ribbed flexible pipe. There was only one smell: ripe human.
Between the rubbish and the gear was a thin yellow sponge mattress. Suzi was lying on it, wearing blue shorts, soaked a shade darker by sweat. Her mauve spikes had drooped in the torrid heat.
She peered at him out of the gloom. "Christ, 'bout time you showed. See what we've been suffering for you."
"All in a good cause." He stepped over the potty and squirmed on to the mattress beside her. One of the gear modules poked sharply into his back.
"Cosy." Suzi smirked spryly. "You wanna do it? There's enough room if you ain't into anything too kinky."
Greg was suddenly very aware of her tough little body pressing against him. "We'd die of heat exhaustion."
"Yeah, tits the size that new girl of yours was stacked with, can't say I blame you."
Greg nearly started to protest, but thought better of it. "I hope you're not handling the observation all by yourself. This heat is bad for you. Seriously."
A growl rumbled up from the back of her throat. "Shit no. It's four-hour shifts only up here. The rest of the squad is spotted round the marina, some of them signed on with the company that's got the franchise to keep the promenade clean. And there are another two in hire cars for tailing Kendric's Jag when he goes runabout. We've been drawing up a habits and behaviour profile. Just like you taught us, right? Knout the man, get to understand him. No hassle in that, talk's pretty loose around here. One of us made barman at a pub the crews use, nothing they like better than slagging off their owners."
"Sounds good so far. What have you got for me?"
Suzi wriggled a hand free and pointed at the screens. "This Kendric, he's a fucking Martian. Not of this earth, y'know? The lives these yacht people lead. Un-be-lievable! Tell you something, though, no way is he a card carrier. I mean, the PSP's local chairpricks, they had it all, right? Eternal junket time. But they haven't got nothing compared to this geezer. The money he's got. He wouldn't last five minutes if they ever got back in power."
"Ah." He'd wondered about the peak of vexation in her mind. "No, Kendric's not Party. But my guess is that he's involved in a spoiler against Event Horizon. And with the economy all shaky with inflation right now, Event Horizon taking a tumble would be serious bad news. The only people who'll benefit are the PSP relics in legitimate opposition. That good enough for you?"
"What's the spoiler?"
"Ministry of Defence. Ultra-hush."
"Figures," she agreed without much enthusiasm. "Son told us Kendric was plugged into big-league corporate operations."
Greg studied the various images on the five screens. Mirriam was the biggest yacht in the marina. Sixty-five metres long, gleaming silver-white, with jet-black ports. Crewmen stripped to the waist were visible, washing down the wide afterdeck. "Is Kendric on board right now?"
"Yeah, as always. Believe me, nothing at all happens in this marina before noon. They're all too busy sleeping off last night's orgies. Right now, it's business time for Kendric. He holds a couple of conference sessions in the mid-deck lounge each day. There's a whole bunch of squarearse lawyer types who turn up each morning to see him. Don't know what they rap about in the cabin, Mirriam's ports are screened, but anything they say out on the deck we've got on a memox cartridge for you." Her eyebrows puckered up. "Isn't that Julia Evans girl in charge of Event Horizon now?"
"Yeah. She owns it."
"No shit? Heard Kendric on about her . . ." Suzi began typing on a keyboard. "Remember the file code," she muttered, and consulted a cybofax. "Here we go."
One of the small screens changed to a scene on the Mirriam's broad afterdeck. Greg squinted down at it. Kendric was sitting on one of the plastic recliners, dressed in an open-neck shirt and tailored shorts, drinking from a tall cut-crystal glass. The man with him was in a suit, his collar undone, tie hanging loose. He looked to be in his late forties, a flat bulldog face with red skin.
"Here," said Suzi. She handed Greg an earpiece.
". . . missing out badly," the man in the suit was saying, in a faint Scottish brogue. "Our Party is damn near down, Kendric, it cannot last long. Terrible thing, food's short, there's no gear, no methane for the farms. People are going to the spivs like never before. There's a hell of a turnover in silver right now. If you could just have a wee word with young Julia Evans, come to an arrangement wi' her till the Party goes down. I can ship it out by the tonne."
"Impossible," Kendric said flatly. His face was dangerously hard. "That frigid bitch and I have severed all our business contacts. There will be no resumption."
"Tis a lot o' money, Kendric."
"Ride it out. I'm closing some deals that will make the black currency market utterly trivial. And I certainly shall not forget your forbearance."
The man in the suit shook his head sadly, and took a drink from his glass.
The image froze. "Didn't mean much at the time," said Suzi. She pecked at the keyboard again.
This time it was evening. A gauzy layer of cumulus cloud glowed copper above the Mirriam. There was a crowd of about fifteen people drinking on the afterdeck, the women in low-cut cocktail dresses; men in suits or blazers. Laughter, clamorous conversation, and the chink of glasses filled the earpiece.
Kendric was standing at the stern with two other men. One tall and slim with thinning blond hair, the second a handsome African in brightly coloured northern tribal robes.
"You have got to provide the house with alternative investments, Kendric," said the blond-haired man. "And fast."
"I've acquired some options in a Pacific Rim portfolio," the African said earnestly. "They'll give you a sixteen to seventeen per cent return, guaranteed minimum."
"No," Kendric said.
"You won't find anything better. Not short-term."
"I'm sorry. I know how hard you worked to put them together. But no."
"You should've hung on, Kendric," said the blond man, "We could've squared it with the family over Siebruk."
Kendric's handsome features darkened. "That deranged little shit, Evans. Buying a fucking bank! I've never heard of anything so . . . so—" He clutched at the polished brass tiff-rail. "God damn that bitch!"
The blond man turned to look out over the marina.
"Look," said the African. "The family is going to insist on an equivalent viability from the money released by pulling out of the Event Horizon backing consortium."
Kendric didn't respond.
"The family—" began the blond man.
"Put them off," Kendric snapped. He caught himself, and rested a companionable hand on the blond man's shoulder. "Six months, Clancy. If I haven't come through by then, I'll step down from the family board anyway. OK?"
Greg considered the faces on the screen. The two financiers' obvious concern. Kendric's driving anger. And intuition was totally spurious. A cornered animal had no choice in the way; it reacted. "Have you got a record of all the visitors?" he asked.
Suzi tapped the sensor array with possessive pride. "No sweat. Day or night, anyone on or off gets tagged. We've got infrared and low level, for night work. Not that we need them, that baby is lit up like a football pitch after dark. And we've got an antenna rigged to intercept Mirriam's local calls. But there's nothing we can do about her satellite uplinks. Trouble is, the local calls have all been the big zero so far, social gabbing and ordering booze, that kind of crap."
Greg grunted and wiped some of the sweat off his forehead.
"Good. If I know who he's been seeing, I might be able to get a clearer idea of exactly what he's planning."
"You figuring on doing an extra-parliamentary number against him?"
"Insufficient data."
She bent back and dragged a koolcan of orange from the heap at her feet. "I'd like in if it happens." She twisted the tab ninety degrees.
Greg watched frost forming over the can with something akin to lust. "No promises. As I said, this is big league. Black-hat spooks with viral wasps and funny midnight accidents."
Suzi pulled the tab and gulped down the icy stream of bubbling orange, burping loudly. "Figures."
"So what happens in the afternoon?"
"She—Hermione, right?—goes shopping, maybe does lunch with a load of airhead cows just like her. Evening, they party; sometimes on one of the other yachts, mostly on theirs, 'bout twenty-five came to it last night. Then after midnight they take off for the Blue Ball. That's a casino in New Eastfield. Hottest spot in town, people say. We tailed them for you, but no fucking way could we get past the bouncers. They pack up around three or four and come straight back. Spoke to a couple of the casino's waitresses, though. They reckoned Kendric and Hermione usually pick up a girl at the Blue Ball, bring her back to Mirriam to provide themselves with some fun. These waitresses, a friend of theirs let herself get talked into going along with them once. Bad scene, Greg, no sadism, but she was really put through her paces. Kendric and Hermione screwed her brains out. Then she got kicked off the next morning. Apparently, they all do. One-nighters; fuck and forget."
"What about the crew?"
Suzi grinned knowingly. "Just in case you're thinking of visiting, right? There's nine real crew, sailor types, including the captain. On top of that you've got seven assorted staff, cooks, maids, and such. Then there's six bodyguards, mean-looking bastards. Oh, here," she leaned over him, tiny pointed breasts squashing against his cheek, damp and salty. He detected a glint of amusement in her mind. She scrabbled amongst the gear modules and came back with a memox crystal. "This has got all the visitors' faces and times they turned up. We managed to get names for a few of them."
One of the flatscreens switched to the Mirriam's blueprints. "There are always at least four people left on board," Suzi said, pointing at it. "We think we've got their cabins assigned, but you can never be sure."
Names had been superimposed over the various cabins.
"Great. Where did you get the specs from?" Greg asked.
"Son snatched them. Mirriam's hull was built in Finland, but she was fitted out up in Tyneside. Apparently the English are still unbeatable when it comes to quality handicrafts."
Greg squirted the memox crystal data into his cybofax, and began skipping through the faces. The images were good, high definition, most seemed to be staring straight into the lens. Morgan Walshaw should be able to assemble profiles on them.
"Oh yeah," Suzi muttered. "They've got themselves a permanent doxy on board, too. She don't do much; too flicking stoned the whole time by the look of her. That Kendric, ménage a quatre every night, some stud, huh?"
Greg flipped through the index until he came to the girl; she'd been given a number, but no name. Her face appeared on the cybofax's little screen.
"That's some looker," Suzi said, craning over his shoulder. "Wouldn't mind her for myself."
"Has she been on board the whole time?"
"Yeah, since we've been watching, anyway. Why, you know her?"
"Yes. Her name is Katerina Cawthorp."
SO WHY I***FYRNST . . . +! IS IULIR'SSSS FRIEND SHCKED UUUUP WITH KENDRIC DE GIROLAMO???
"I don't know the specifics," Greg said, his voice raised, strained.
Royan was jittering about in his dentist's chair, shoulders jerking in an erratic pumping rhythm. Royan was having one of his bad days, and when Greg considered just how shitty even Royan's good days must be . . .
CONNNNECTED?
"There is no such thing as coincidence."
WAS I HE%%%%LPING YOU WITH l OTIIIIMES>>?
The catheter bag which dangled below the chair on a chrome coathook was filling with an oily bilious liquid.
"Big help. He was a blackmail victim, not a proper hotrod. Someone has been feeding him sophisticated viruses to use on burns."
THINK HE WAS ODDDDDD. TOOOO QUICK TO GOOOO SOLO. NOT ENOUGH SHITTTT END END END. NOT ENOUGH CIRCIT SKORES TO HISSS HANDEL.
HURTSSS GREEG. REALLLY HURTS MEEEEE.
And how could he answer that? He smiled broadly, feeling a prize turd. "Hey, you made a friend in Eleanor. She's planning on coming back."
BEAUTY ANDDDD BEAAST. HORRRIBLENASTY FILTH!!! MEMEMEMEME. YOU SCREW BABIESBABIES MAKKK MAKE BABIES TOOOOGETHER . . . IIIIIIIII WANNT WANT SHITFILLTH.
GOOOOOOO AWWWAY GGREG.
Greg couldn't move. Revolted and horrified. He wanted to get out, out and never come back. Break free. The Trinities, the Constables, Blackshirts, this tower, this room, Royan; they were all facets of his ingrained guilt, soul-devouring.
DON'TTTTTT CRY.
He rubbed knuckles into his eyes, vision blurring.
QUUIK WHYCOME???
Qoi appeared in the kitchen door, concern marring her fragile, sensitive features. She flashed Greg a look he couldn't begin to interpret.
WHY
"I needed you to run a finance backtrack for me. I think it's the missing link, the one that'll tie Kendric to the hotrods."
The screens exploded into an incoherent image-mash; channel shows, himself seen through Royan's eye camera, sticky tears smearing his cheeks, mad computer graphics. starchy-neat data tables dissolving into tight vortices of green and blue alphanumerics. One of the little trash robots trundled across the floor, gears grinding harshly, and bumped into a plant trough. It backed off, and hit the trough again, and again. Bewitched with a mindless insect sentience.
Qoi was at Royan's side, pinching his nose with one hand, trying to push a feed bottle's nipple into his mouth. He flung his head from side to side, a desperate thrumming sound raised in his throat.
DATA DATA DAT---------------------LEAVE IT IT IT
A multitude of red and green LEDs lit up on one of Royan's cranky gear consoles. Greg retrieved the memory O'Donal had given him from his cybofax, and showed it to the console. Squirting.
The screens were showing a giant still picture of Trafalgar Square. Greg recognised it instantly. A euphoric classic. The day the PSP fell; beamed out live by every channel in the world. The crowd singing God Save the King, orange flames rising from a hundred PSP banners, ten thousand Union Jacks waving in joyful celebration, a residue of smoke from Downing Street boiling through the air. The scene was swelling, individual pixels becoming golf-ball-sized, a nonsense mosaic.
Royan sounded as though he was choking. Qoi had got the nipple into his mouth, he was sucking frantically; treacly globs of mashed apple running down his chin, dribbling on to an already badly stained T-shirt.
Behind Greg the robot suddenly stopped its mad battering. There must've been something in the apple. Royan was visibly wilting.
"You go now, please," Qoi said, bowing from the waist.
The lunatic kaleidoscope shrank as the screens began to wink out one by one.
Qoi's small expressive eyes were filled with a sorrow that had no right inhabiting someone her age. "Nothing more you can do."
Chapter Twenty-Six
A flock of black storks were flapping lazily overhead as Greg walked up the Mirriam's gangplank. The bodyguard teleported out of nowhere to block his path, a hand holding both railings. He was wearing a red-and-green-striped rugby shirt and coffee-coloured shorts. "You looking far something?" he asked in strongly accented English.
"Yes, Mr. di Girolamo."
"He's not expecting you."
Greg couldn't see the bodyguard's eyes, they were hidden behind wrapround Ferranti sunglasses. His neck was thickly muscled, displaying a vast network of protruding veins. Whatever steroids he was taking, they were playing hell with his blood pressure.
"Just tell him Greg Mandel is here to see him." He held up the Event Horizon card.
The bodyguard thought it over then called over his shoulder. Another bodyguard appeared at the top of the gangplank; a black bear of a man, over two metres tall, shoulders in proportion, sweat glinting on his broad forehead. The two of them exchanged a brief murmur, th
en the first stabbed a meaty forefinger at Greg. "You. Don't move." He disappeared below deck, leaving his replacement to fold his arms and look Greg up and down contemptuously.
Greg ignored the attempted intimidation. If Kendric was relying on people like this to protect him from a professional snatch posse then he was in deep trouble. They looked tough, and probably knew their combat routine, but put them up against a tekmerc hardliner team and they wouldn't last the opening second.
Muddy water lapped quietly against the yacht's hull.
Greg had deliberately waited until midday to give Kendric a chance to recover from his partying at the Blue Ball.
"You've cracked," Suzi had barked when he told her he was going on board.
"Tell you, I have to get near Kendric," he said.
"Why, for Christ's sake?"
"Ask him questions, see how he reacts."
"Crazy." She crossed herself, eyes rolling. But she helped organise the back-up, positioning the Trinities around the marina. Greg couldn't find any fault in her method, Suzi had been one who listened.
Knowing the squad was providing covering fire gave him a degree of confidence walking into the lion's den. The orders Suzi had were simple enough: on no account was he to be taken into the yacht itself.
"OK, you can come up," the first bodyguard had returned. The set of his jaw radiated severe disapproval.
Mirriam was sixty-five metres of sheer beauty. Whatever his other faults, Kendric certainly knew the difference between refined style and pretentious glitz. Mirriam was conceived as a shrine to the former. Her polished wooden decks gleamed with a rosy sheen under the desert-bright sun. Every immaculate brass fixture was mirror-bright. The low-friction white paint was painful on the eyes.
Greg was led round to the afterdeck. It had integral couches with puffy leather upholstery forming an island in the centre, several recliners dotted about. There was a clutch of chrome gym equipment on the starboard side, just outside the lounge-cabin doors.
Katerina was lying prone on the bench press, using its leg lift, a big LCD counter notching up each pull. She was dressed in tight black neoprene sprinter shorts, green stretch-leggings, and the top of a loose mauve T-shirt that'd been slashed in half, its ragged hem barely covering her large breasts. Her mane of blonde hair was held back with a broad white elastic towelling band. She was perspiring heavily, drawing breath through her nostrils, an expression of grim concentration on her perfect chiselled features.
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